


let go darling

by evelyn_hayes



Category: Supernatural, Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Alchemy, Angst, Businessman Lotor, Crossover, Demon!Shiro, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Guardian Demon, Hunter!Allura, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Magic, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Shiro (Voltron), Road Trips, Self-Harm, Shiro (Voltron) Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, True Names, Vassal and Liege, Witch!Allura, but in white, but it's not really self-directed, feat. the IMPALA BABY, it's a new thing, it's darker, klance fluff, not a guardian angel fic, shallura fluff, then again i will bring in elements, you'll see - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-16
Updated: 2018-04-22
Packaged: 2019-03-31 22:20:01
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,052
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13984512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/evelyn_hayes/pseuds/evelyn_hayes
Summary: Allura blinks. She's suddenly outside, the pale moon shining down on her and the old house behind her. There's a man gripping her hand. Tall and shrouded in a peculiar jacket. His hood shadows his face, but she makes out a scar across his nose and a patch of white hair dangling from the front of his head. She searches his face and sees-Black eyes.She wrenches her hand away from his grip and unsheathes her bayard. "Who the hell are you? Why did you save me from your own kind? Demon?" (Why are you hurting?)The man blinks, the black eyes disappearing and revealing a set of dark brown irises. He pulls back his hood and mask then raises his hands in a placating gesture."I'm not a demon. Not like them," he says after seemingly gathering his breath. "I'm your vassal."or the VLD/SPN crossover no one asked for.





	1. Cin Vhetin

**Author's Note:**

> Heya. It's Evelyn here with my first contribution to the Voltron fandom. This fic's sorta dark, and it explores the concept of a guardian demon (not angel) who's bound to protect their liege above all else. It's a Supernatural crossover only because the fic uses the universe, but I won't put any of the supernatural protagonists as main characters. (ie. I might bring in a few characters but people as important or more important than Bobby Singer will only get mentions.) This was really fun to plot out, and I'm really excited to see your response to this fic :)
> 
> All my thanks go to the wonderful human being the-jeans (https://the-jeans.tumblr.com) who helped me beta this story. I am certain this would be shit without your help :) Any mistakes are mine.

 

_Creak._

Allura tenses, her feet freezing on the old floorboards. Her eyes survey the foreign area around her, searching every nook and cranny for any hints that she had startled anyone, anything. She had learned early on that demons had extremely good hearing; if she took one wrong step, they could swarm her. But then again, demons usually wouldn’t take their time snatching up their prey—in this case, her. Once they found her, they would move in for the kill.

 

So no, her misstep hadn’t cost her her quarry. Good.

 

She tests every floorboard now, gently pushing her toe against it before stepping on it. She’s panicked, nervous, but she hides it within every tense muscle and moves forward. She can’t turn back. Now is not the time for fear.

 

_Creaaak._

 

She almost jumps this time, setting off another creak. She must’ve missed checking a floorboard. There is no one in the shadows, no one jumping out to claim her as their prize. Only her fear is there, seeping from within her pounding heart to the dark corners of the room. She forces herself to calm down, goes over the Sixteen Principles of Altean Alchemy in a last-ditch effort.

 

No one has found her yet. She is safe. She will find her quarry.

 

_Creaaaak. Creaak. Creeaaak._

 

The sounds are closer now, faster. This isn’t her. She hasn’t moved an inch since the last sound. It can’t be the blood pounding in her ears—fear doesn’t _creak_. Floorboards do. She scans the area again, squinting into the darkness for any signs of movement, anything to tell her _why the house is creaking_ —

 

A hand clamps around her mouth.

 

She nearly screams, but she bites instead, her sharp incisors digging into the soft skin of her assailant. He howls in pain, stumbling away from her. She seizes the opportunity, twisting away and reaching for the bayard clipped to her belt. She doesn’t activate it yet; she needs to know who these people are before she reveals her identity.

 

Demons. A whole nest of them. They circle her, the sound of the creaking floorboards almost driving her insane. They know she’s here to kill them. They know she’s a hunter.

 

They don’t know she’s much, much more than that.

 

Her lips twist into a feral grin as she activates her bayard, the ancient Altean incantation to activate it easily falling from her mouth. She relishes the way her Altean broadsword sings as she swings it up and _charges_.

 

The first demon falls easily, shock still etched on their meatsuit's face as she knocks him against the walls. She leaps after him, her hand lighting up with the telltale rush of pure _energy_ as she slams it against the demon’s head. The meatsuit’s jaw falls open in pain as the demon rushes out of the body, screaming as it falls back into the fires of hell.

 

A hand grips her hood and throws her back, sending her sailing through the air. Air rushes out of her lungs when she slams into the wall, leaving her gasping for air as the demons all charge her. She grips her bayard tighter, forces every muscle in her body to move, and _jumps_.

 

She sails over their heads easily, landing behind them on two feet. She thrusts her sword into the demon closest to her, the pure quintessence running through the blade forcing the demon out of its vessel. She doesn’t waste any time on celebrating her small victory, instead exorcising another demon with her magic. Her heart thumps with every step she takes, every slash of the sword, high on adrenaline. Her blood thrums with the steady pulse of her magic, the Altean markings adorning her face and arms lighting up with blue energy.

 

But the demons are _good_. For every demon she exorcizes, they get a hit in. She is a single person against an army of demons.

 

She is powerful. She is smart. She has years of experience. But even she knows she is not a match for this many demons.

 

So she compensates. She takes away as many demons as she can, matching the demons hit for hit. Each time they get a cut in, she sends one of them back into hell. But soon, the pattern is difficult to keep up with. The demons just keep… _swarming_. And it’s not like they’re mindless zombies; they’re _smart_. They knew to wait until she was vulnerable to attack. They showed enough of their army to intimidate her before the fight started. They didn’t reveal all their cards from the get-go.

 

Allura is hopeless in this fight.

 

Honestly, she’s fine with that. What does she have to lose? Her coven? Nope, dead. Honerva, the closest thing she had to a mother? Lost. Lotor, the one member of the coven she managed to save during the massacre? Taken from her. Her father, Alfor, the only blood family she ever had?

 

Killed before her eyes.

 

She loses the will to fight. She’s already lost the will to love; she’s surprised her determination lasted so long.

 

Allura deactivates her bayard and dials down her magic to a low simmer. The demons raise their heads slightly, acknowledging her surrender. She doesn’t flinch at the glint of hunger in their eyes. She knew this coming into the abandoned house. She hadn’t collected enough lore, enough information heading into the case. She walked into a _quiznaked_ trap knowing that she wasn’t prepared for this.

 

She’s scared as hell. But she will _not_ give them the satisfaction of total victory. That’s the one thing she won’t do. She will die defiant.

 

She wonders whether she will go to heaven or hell. She knows she’ll go to hell, but she still hopes for heaven. Because that’s where her coven, her mother, her father surely are. And she would give anything to see them once more time.

 

“For Altea,” she whispers, and braces herself.

 

The demons leap forward.

 

But they don’t reach her.

 

Allura blinks. She’s suddenly outside, the pale moon shining down on her and the old house behind her. There’s a man gripping her hand. Tall and shrouded in a peculiar jacket. His hood shadows his face, but she makes out a scar across his nose and a patch of white hair dangling from the front of his head. Behind the cloth mask that covers the tip of his nose and all of his mouth, she’s sure he’s gritting his teeth. Startled, she searches his face for the source of his pain and sees—

 

Black eyes.

 

She wrenches her hand away from his grip and unsheathes her bayard. (She doesn’t miss the way he relaxes once her hand leaves his.) “Who the _hell_ are you? Why did you save me from your own kind? _Demon_?” ( _Why are you hurting?)_

 

The man blinks, the black eyes disappearing and revealing a set of dark brown irises. He pulls back his hood and mask then raises his hands in a placating gesture. He draws in a few shaky breaths using a technique Allura recognizes—it’s used to ignore excruciating pain during times of duress. (She bites back an “are you okay” and focuses on her spite and her confusion.)

 

“I’m not a demon. Not like them,” he says after seemingly gathering his breath. “I’m your vassal.”

 

She squints. “I don’t need a vessel.”

 

He laughs at that. “No, no. _Vassal_. V-A-S-S-A-L. I guess you could say I’m your guardian demon.”

 

 _O…kay?_ She’s confused. “I thought people were supposed to have guardian _angels_.”

 

“Good things tend to not be true.”

 

She adjusts her grip on her sword, not really knowing how to respond to that.  “I thought guardians came when called. I didn’t call you,” she says, deciding to bring the conversation back to the point. “Oh, and, uh—since _when_ did I even have a demon guardian? Vassal? Whatever?”

 

The man looks around, eyes flaring at the sight of movement from the windows. She catches it too—it’s the demons. “I can answer all your questions later. Right now, you need to move. I don’t have enough power to teleport you again.”

 

 _Oh no you don’t._ She grips his collar easily, pushing him back against a tree trunk. She’s strong, easily stronger than a demon. “I’m not going anywhere unless I know for sure you’re not going to hurt me.” 

 

He tenses, eyes screaming desperation. “You really need to go. We don’t have much time, my liege.”

 

 _My liege_. A vassal thing. She stores it in the back of her brain, then presses him a little harder against the bark. (His face contorts in agony before he composes himself again. She notes that too.) “Then you better answer my question quickly.”

 

“I _can’t_ _hurt_ you, okay?” His voice is soft, yielding. “If I touch you, _I’m_ hurt. Physically. It’s this vassal thing. Our sole purpose is to protect our lieges. If I touch a hair on you, I’m violating my duty.” His eyes harden. “One lash on the back for each wrong done.” (He says this like a rhyme. Something hammered in him by his society, she believes.)

 

Her confusion clears. Grabbing her hand to teleport her had hurt him. It explained the little winces and the pain etched on his face when she pressed him against the tree. Feeling guilty, she steps back immediately, letting him go. “Sorry.”

 

“It’s alright, my liege.” He’s guarded. Formal. (His eyes look haunted.)

 

“And. Um.” She turns to face the demon. “Thank you. For saving my life.”

 

He shakes his head. “No need to thank me. It’s my duty.”

 

She smiles thinly, then turns to leave. It’s not the demon that’s bothering her. The demon nest was proof that Allura wasn’t _good enough_ for this. For every monster she kills, a dozen appear. For every person she saves, a dozen die. She’s not helping anyone.  And in the face of this, she  _gave up_. Where is the belligerent daughter of Alfor gone? Where is her spirit?

 

She is lost. She has nowhere to go. She has nothing to do.

 

“Do you know where you’re going?” Allura stops. It’s the demon speaking to her, eyebrow quirked in a way that tells her this is not a literal question. (It shocks her, how he can seemingly read her mind.)

 

Instead of telling him the truth, she falls back on a hunter’s last weapon: sarcasm. “Are you going to go away?”

 

He shakes his head. “You are my liege and I am your vassal. Even if I leave now, I’ll return when you’re in mortal danger.”

 

She sighs. The demon’s smart and quick on his feet. He hasn’t done anything to hurt her—hell, he hurt _himself_ for her. He’s showing all the signs of a trustworthy person. On the other hand, he _is_ a demon.

 

Oh what the hell.

 

She jerks her head towards her car.

 

“As you wish, my liege.”

 

She grunts as she cuts a devil’s trap so the man can come across. “Drop the formalities. You can call me Allura.”

 

He walks across, waiting as Allura fixes up the trap. “Are you sure?” (He says this like a timid mouse.)

 

“Of course. You saved my life. We’re at least on first-name basis,” she says, heading for the car. “Speaking of—your name?”

 

He blinks. He’s surprised. (Her heart aches as she realizes she’s the first in years to ask.) It takes him a few seconds before he answers.

 

“Shiro. You can call me Shiro.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "you may call me shiro"
> 
>  
> 
> ahahahaaa angsty fucker
> 
> all the titles and the spells are in mando'a because i am a cheap fucker and mando'a has similar structure to altean
> 
> bai hope ya likey


	2. Ruyot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She hurries the car out of the gravelly excuse of a driveway, then onto the smooth highway. The sound of the Impala’s smooth rumble calms her. Her mind, disoriented from the guilt and the surprise, rights itself. She takes a breath in. 
> 
> There’s a quiznaked demon sitting in her car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's just exposition, pretty much. Allura and Shiro discuss how vassals work, and Allura does a bit of magic. They warm up to each other. 
> 
> Thanks again to the wonderful the_jeans (https://the-jeans.tumblr.com) for making sure this isn't total shit :)

Allura’s car is the only possession she has that she’s proud of, aside from her bayard. A 1967 white Chevy Impala, it was old, rackety, and loud. Allura didn’t mind. She loved it for its faults. It felt human. (With the lonely life she’s living, she craves every human interaction—even an imitation created within her mind and projected on an object.) It was a gift from a retired hunter who she had saved from his own ghosts. It’s a place where she can _think_ , like a mind palace. A castle.

 

She unlocks the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. Shiro tentatively sits in shotgun. “Nice car.”

 

Allura might be imagining it, but it sounds heartfelt, genuine. She smiles, feeling the Altean marks on her face glow from the praise. (She tells them to shut up.) “Thanks.”

 

She hurries the car out of the gravelly excuse of a driveway, then onto the smooth highway. The sound of the Impala’s smooth rumble calms her. Her mind, disoriented from the guilt and the surprise, rights itself. She takes a breath in.

 

There’s a _quiznaked_ demon sitting in her car.

 

No, no, he’s not just a demon anymore. Or vassal. His name is Shiro. It’s unlikely that’s his true name; true names have so much power. Any supernatural being who’s addressed by their true name must answer honestly. (Allura’s one of the only beings in the world exempt from this rule; her magic stems from a power that no other witch or alchemist in the world has been able to access.) True names are shared only between two beings with immense trust. Immense as in a _really fucking big amount_ of trust. She didn’t even know her father’s true name, let alone Honerva’s.

 

But then again, he _did_ say he was her vassal, sworn to protect her above all else. Maybe he _did_ tell her his true name. She blinks, confusion shrouding her head again.

 

“I’m—I’m confused,” she finally says. “How does this whole vassal thing work?”

 

Shiro goes quiet for a moment. His answer comes quietly, tentative. (He’s scared of her. Why, Shiro?) “How much do you want to know?”

 

Allura shrugs. “Anything important. Anything that I need to know to make sure you won’t screw yourself over.”

 

There’s no response for a moment. When the moment becomes a minute, she takes her eyes off the road—for a second, she’s not going to risk crashing her car—and looks at Shiro. He’s staring at her, mouth slightly open. (There’s shock in his eyes.)

 

“What?”

 

“I...never mind.”

 

“Shiro. What’s the matter?”

 

He looks down and doesn’t reply.

 

She suppresses a sigh and turns her eyes back to the road. “Alright, don’t answer. But I need you to answer to my first question. It’s vital for both your safety and mine.”

 

There’s a rustle of clothes. “Okay. Alright. Uh. Like I said earlier, vassals are sworn to protect their liege above all else. And...oh, another thing lieges can do is command their vassal.”

 

Her eyes go wide. “Wait. Have I been commanding you all night?”

 

“No, no,” he laughs. “Um. How do I explain this? There’s a difference between commanding and requesting. There’s a thin line between the two.”

 

Allura snorts. “That _thin line_ you speak of is barely a line. It’s quite difficult to distinguish.” (Her mind falls back to the past. She remembers the strangeness of her body when...) She shakes her head. That is to be left in the past.

 

“Yeah, that’s true in politics or human disputes,” Shiro says. “It’s a bit different for supernatural beings. The line’s more distinguished.”

 

(Not enough to save me.)

 

Allura breathes out, filtering her breath through her teeth. (Suppress the memories.) “Alright. How do I make sure I’m requesting, not commanding?”

 

There’s that pause again. “I...here. You’re a witch, right?”

 

“ _Alchemist_ ,” she emphasizes. “Witches do the work of evil forces. Alchemists strive for peace.”

 

“Right, sorry.” (It sounds genuine. What is with this man? Why is he so sincere? Why does he give so much when she gives him nothing? Why is he so goddamn _confusing?_ ) “Okay. Say something to me.”

 

She blinks. (Goddamnit. See? Now she’s confused. Thanks to him.) “Hi?”

 

“Okay. Now say a spell. A basic one,” he backtracks, “like a levitation spell or whatever.”

 

She summons her magic to the markings adorning her skin. Just a little bit; a basic spell only needs a small amount of power. Too much energy and the spell could combust. She aims her magic at the mixtape lying on her dashboard, feeling the power wait for her command. And so she does. “ _Motir_.”

 

The mixtape floats. She lets it levitate for ten seconds before dropping it.

 

“That’s the difference,” Shiro eventually says, voice quiet, revering. “Requesting is like talking with another human being. Commanding is like a spell.”

 

“Oh.” Her breath is shaky with the strain of keeping her magic at bay. Her power’s not used to such small increments of magic being used at a time. It leaps at her skin, practically clawing her from the inside in an effort to escape her body.

 

“Are you alright, my liege?” Shiro’s voice is low, fearful.

 

“Yes, I’m—I’m quite alright,” she assures him. “My magic is just a little too eager to join the outside world. Speaking of which, do you have magic? That teleportation spell was quite impressive.”

 

“Thank you,” he murmurs. “Uh. Right. Magic. It’s...complicated. My magic is. Um. Weird. Basic spells, things I know by heart—I can do, but I can’t rely on it to be there when I need it. And here’s the funny thing—vassals aren’t supposed to have magic.”

 

She smiles at that. “You’re the exception.”

 

“I’m the exception.”

 

She looks up into the sky. It’s cloudy, covering the waning moon. “Do you think anyone would mind if I made it rain? It seems my magic won’t calm down.”

 

“You might mind,” he points out. “Driving in the rain at night is difficult.”

 

“Good thing I’m a skilled driver.”

 

She breathes out, letting the magic scraping at her skin loose through her markings. Most alchemists would need a rune or an incantation to pull off something of this scale. But rain was erratic, natural; for a being of pure quintessence like her, it was a matter of emotion and heart. 

 

“Is that...it?” Shiro sounds confused. He has every right to be. It’s not raining at the moment.

 

She smiles. “Give it time.”

 

They keep chatting on the way to the cheap motel. He tells her about the Seven Rules that he is bound to. She tells him of the wonders of old Altea. They barely notice when the rain begins to fall, the sound of the droplets battering the Impala like a steady drum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aww, look at them. They're bonding. Isn't it cute?
> 
>  
> 
> Next chapter has some really serious angst. Oh come on, you think I wouldn't balance out the fluff with a (un)healthy dose of angst?

**Author's Note:**

> "you may call me shiro"
> 
>  
> 
> ahahahaaa angsty fucker
> 
> all the titles and the spells are in mando'a because i am a cheap fucker and mando'a has similar structure to altean
> 
> bai hope ya likey
> 
>  
> 
> ps. how do you upload images into the text? i did cover art for this and i have no idea how to upload it here. i got a mac, btw.


End file.
